


catch yourself out

by sonatine



Category: Derry Girls (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M, these gays all stick together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 09:16:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonatine/pseuds/sonatine
Summary: James protests, “I still don’t like it,” as Erin hustles him on the bus. She tells him, “It was the only way, and you know it.”





	catch yourself out

Michelle’s reaction is unsurprising. She pretends to throw up. Then she actually throws up because it’s 7am and she’s still drunk. Orla says, “Okay. Do you have a matchbox?”

Clare throws a fit.

James protests, “I still don’t like it,” as Erin hustles him on the bus. She tells him, “It was the only way, and you know it.”

* * *

 

It takes all of twenty minutes for Sister Michael to call them into the office. She has a single grey streak visible at her hairline now. Michelle has christened it _Fergus_.

“Term has been in session —” Sister Michael sounds like she’s been made to climb out of her own grave — “for all of two days. Is it not exhausting to always make trouble?”

“In fairness, sister,” says James, “it wasn’t us who started it.”

Sister Michael stares meditatively at a photo of her and Sister Thomas on a tropical island somewhere, feet in the sand, holding matching cocktails. “The fact of the matter is, Mr. Maguire, that you owe Miss Joyce an apology.”

“We’ll apologize to her in hell,” Erin hisses, pounding her fist against the door of the chapel.

James says in horror, “I think this very well might be,” as a horde of preteens clustered under a _YOUR BODY, GOD’S BODY_ banner swivel their heads to stare.

The docent leads them to the priest’s office. A small child points a sanitary pad at them threateningly on the way. Father Conway informs them that Sinead Joyce _had_ been there, but she’d been called back to the office. “If you’re headed there, you wouldn’t mind bringing this along, would you?” A briefcase is shoved into James’ arms. Erin is safe because hers were crossed.

“Actually, we —”

“And you’d better take these as well,” Father Conway adds, which is how Erin ends up sprinting down High Street with a basket of baked goods above her head, pursued by a trail of dogs.

James holds the Oxfam door open for her, wincing. Erin shoulders it open. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Sorry,” he says, suspiciously trite, and not to mention intent on hurrying her inside, for someone who has been moaning about shin splints the last half hour. She catches sight of David Donnelly across the street. He looks suckerpunched. That may be because of the dog mob, but she’s not optimistic.

“Shit,” she says, as James trips over his feet. “For god’s sake.”

“I can’t help it!” He’s well over six feet tall now, to Michelle’s fury. He visibly steels himself at the SINEAD JOYCE, REGIONAL MANAGER sign.

A secretary leads them through an endless series of hallways and doors, and finally into a sunlit room with views of the river. A walrus of a woman stands behind a desk.

James hides behind Erin again.

“Erin Quinn!” shouts Jenny’s mother, rushing forward. She shakes their hands with enough force to power the partition. “Can’t believe how much you’ve grown. I remember that speech you gave for the juniors competition. I’d never thought about the rainforest that way before.” She turns to James, who is open-mouthed. “And you must be Mr. Maguire! Jenny’s told me such good things about you.”

“Has she?”

Sinead Joyce roars like James is the world’s foremost standup. Erin holds out the box of pastries like a shield.

“Cracking! Deborah!” The secretary walks in tiredly. Sinead says, “The wains have bickies for us,” and doesn’t mention that they’re meant to be penance. The briefcase is swept away in the excitement.

“Mrs. Joyce,” James tries, “we are deeply ashamed of our behavior this weekend —”

Sinead Joyce waves a hand. “That gutter needed replacing anyway. And I know how my Jenny can be.” She seems almost human as she says this. Erin feels a moment of sympathy. It can’t be easy being related to Jenny Joyce; just like it’s a trial sometimes to be related to Orla. Erin tells her, “Sure and I had to rescue my cousin last week from the zoo pond.” Sinead winks, in solidarity.

Erin’s mother is another matter. She shouts, then makes a stew, and shouts some more. James is probably at home leisurely watching the telly like a lord in his castle, as Auntie Deirdre won’t be home for hours. Nothing is fair. A punishment of, “No phone privileges for a week, you understand?” is handled down, and then “Absolutely _no_ social life this weekend, either!” is added the next morning.

“So I’m being punished for standing up for myself, is that it? You and da want to raise a coward?”

Her granda shoos her out of the armchair. The baby is dropped in Erin’s arms. Her mam turns back from the door with a threatening finger: “If I catch one hair of you outside —”

“You’d better leave before Aunt Sarah catches you writing to Michael Curry.”

_“What?”_ Aunt Sarah calls from the kitchen window. She clambers through the back door. “ _My_ ex-boyfriend?”

“Stop calling my dentist that,” her mam says.

Erin does her mascara in the TV’s reflection. Eighteen minutes later, her granda is snorting on cue, but Orla is being a roadblock. “Jimmy Riordan’s cousin brought back firecrackers. We’re going to shoot them off the bridge.”

“I’ll do your homework for a week,” Erin wheedles.

“I can do my own homework.”

“I’ll lie for you. One get out of jail free card, no questions asked, from now to eternity.”

Orla considers. “But you can't ask what the lie is _for_.”

“That’s what— it doesn’t matter. Deal.”

They shake on it. Erin hands over the baby. She’s down the street in less than a minute. It’s chucking it down and she’s forgotten her mac, but there’s no time.

She spots James standing in front of O’Flannery’s on the High Street. He’s biting his nails. What a dingus. Everyone else around him is smoking.

“What took you so long?” he demands. The rain finally lets up as she reaches the awning. Typical. Erin pushes wet fringe out of her eyes. “And what’s all this?” He swipes a hand against her cheek. His fingers come back smudged.

Excellent. “How bad is it?”

“Um. You look only partly dead.”

“Shit. Lend me your scarf. It’s nearly quarter past.”

“I’m not letting you muck it up! It’s new.”

“I’d do the same for you! Have some human empathy, come on —”

“Erin,” says a voice behind them.

Erin freezes. Her hands are tangled in James’ scarf; his are still on her face. They leap apart. Ice daggers from Charlene Kavanagh’s eyes. She’s already wearing her apron.

Wiping the running mascara from her face with dignity, Erin says, “All right, Charlene?”

Charlene’s elbow is at military angle. “Heard you two had quite a night at the Joyces’ after the rugby. Heard Aisling walked in on _something_ in the cupboard.” Charlene’s head tilts. “Heard you two were _too busy_ to notice.”

“Ah —” says Erin, spotting her mam across the street. Now it’s her turn to hide behind James. “It wasn’t like that…” Her mam is looking right at her. She’s dead. She’s worse than dead. She’ll be locked up until the new millenium.

“Then what _was_ it like?”

Her mam’s face is all wrong. She’s still staring, but it’s not upset. There’s a shout behind them. Erin realizes all at once where they are.

Charlene sounds near tears. “If you fancy James, I won’t stand in your way. But you could’ve told me.”

_Annual Sale! Everything must go!_ proclaims the banner hanging from the storefront. Locks turn. So do middle-aged heads all along the street.

James says urgently, “We have to move.”

The bodies are closing in. Gemma Sharkey’s claws are extended. The teen unlocking the door trembles behind the glass. He trips backing away.

James yanks Erin back. She reaches out for Charlene — their fingers touch — too late, too late. They’re already separated by the charging horde.

David Donnelly appears from nowhere. He hauls Charlene to safely on the opposite pavement. The four of them stare at each other from either side of the street in a western standoff.

Charlene meets Erin’s gaze. She reaches out.

“Don’t you _dare_.”

Clare’s ma bustles by them, shoving Big Mandy’s tiny da aside. He leaps over a manhole with a dexterity and fortitude that the English would love to exploit given the opportunity.

Charlene defiantly grabs David Donnelly’s hand. Their fingers lace.

“Whore!”

Sister Thomas swoops onto the scene to tend the wounded. A woman with a broken shoe heel collapses into her arms. “Here,” she gasps. “Take this coupon. It’s too late for me.”

“Don’t say that,” says Sister Thomas fiercely, hoisting the woman up. “You’ll get those bath towels at half price, see if you don’t.”

By the time the mob clears, Charlene and David have disappeared. Erin kicks a bollard. “ _Damn_ it.” She covers her face. “We need to find them, _now_. They’re probably snogging in a phone booth as we speak. Or getting a marriage license.”

“That seems unlikely,” James says, but he lets himself be hauled away. He’s pale.

Charlene’s not at work. Neither is David. Nor is he at the sweet shop, the pub, the river where all the delinquents smoke, or the skate park. They’re nowhere to be found in all of Derry.

“In fairness,” says James, pulling his jacket tighter as they climb the hill home, “we’re probably just missing each other.”

“Great.” Erin spots a familiar yellow head bobbing towards them. “Clare! Clare, have you seen David Donnelly anywhere?”

“I’m not speaking to you.” Clare marches past with an armful of books and her omnipresent jean jacket. She’s got a new rainbow badge pinned on it. “And I am sick to death of David Donnelly!”

“So am I,” says Erin’s da tiredly, clearing off the dinner table.

“I thought we were through with him last spring,” says Aunt Sarah, still partially concussed from her skating accident but with wherewithal yet to apply lipstick, “when she dumped him.”

“Christ alive,” says her mam, “so did we all.”

The next morning is worse. Not only is it a sunny bank holiday that Erin is grounded for, now there is neither hide nor hair to be seen of James. His room is dark. He’s not answering the phone. Michelle stumbles home at 8am. Erin signals her with a flashlight from the window. Michelle shuts the curtains.

She rings Clare’s house repeatedly until Mr. Devlin picks up with a, “Jesus _wept_ ,” and audibly slams the receiver. She immediately redials.

Clare picks up this time. “Stop harassing my family, Uncle Clyde.”

“No, it’s me. Have you seen James at all today? Or David Donnelly? Or Charlene Kavanagh, for that matter?”

There’s a fumbling sound on the other end of the line. Clare’s voice says distantly, _No, it’s only Erin,_ then she comes back with a crackle. “Sounds like you’ve got a whole billing of people avoiding you.”

_Tell her mam we’ve got poker tomorrow,_ Mr. Devlin calls in the background.

“ _Tell her yourself!_ Hang on.” There’s another jostling. Erin knows that Clare is walking the receiver to the hallway closet. There’s the familiar rustling of coats as she sinks to the floor.

“They’re not avoiding me, they’re just MIA. Well. Maybe Charlene is.”

“I don’t blame her. I heard she walked in on you and James snogging in a cupboard. And that the Joyce had to hire builders. What were you _thinking_ , Erin?”

“I was thinking it would piss off Jenny Joyce.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“It was a fake kiss! It didn’t mean anything.”

“Bet it meant something to Charlene and David.”

This gives Erin pause. She twists the phone cord around her finger. It’s splitting. Too much stress has been put on it for too long. “I was only trying to help.”

“Unbelievable,” Clare repeats, and hangs up.

There’s a pounding at the back door. The doorknob turns once, experimentally, as if by someone new to earth. Michelle bursts inside. She knocks over the kettle with an elbow. Water sloshes over the kitchen floor. With a hand wave, she says, “I’ll take care of that— later. Why is it so bright in here?”

“Because it’s nighttime, Michelle.”

“Really?” She lights a cigarette and collapses into a chair. “Good morning to you too. Do you have any toast over here? James has eaten all of ours.”

Erin throws herself across the table. “ _Have you seen him today?”_

“Ach, no, weirdo. But mammy’s at work, the house is empty, and the all the food is gone, so _ipso facto_ —” Michelle leans back to tap ash into the sink. She points the cigarette at Erin. “Why are you here all alone?”

“I’m grounded.”

“What for?” The toaster pops. She pulls butter, bread, and a knife from the counter without leaving her chair. The cigarette is clamped between her teeth. “Got any jelly?”

“Orla finished it. And for ruining everyone’s life and bringing shame upon the family, apparently.”

“What the actual fuck are you on about,” Michelle says. Crumbs spray across the table. She cleans the floor lake with a tea towel. “Oh, the thing at Jenny Joyce’s? Whatever. They have liability insurance. And I thought it was nice of you, actually.”

Erin buries her head in her hands. “You’re the only one.”

Michelle snorts. “Things’ll blow over soon. Just wait for someone else to do something worse. Then people will talk about that instead.” Her lighter clicks empty. She rummages through the junk drawer. “And as much as I hate to admit it, my braindead dickbag of a cousin appreciates it too. He’s not nearly as brave as Clare.”

“Speaking of people who hate me.”

“Clare thinks everyone should do things her way. My question is: why do you care?” Michelle holds up a pair of Aunt Sarah’s earrings. “Do you think your aunt will miss these?”

“Probably. I care because I’ve messed everything up.”

“You keep saying that. Go fix things, then.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Then go to the grave feeling bad for yourself.” Michelle loops on the earrings and nicks a bottle of seltzer on her way out.

Orla knocks at Erin’s door around nine. “Mammy wants to know if you’ve eaten anything and also have you seen her earrings.”

Erin is curled up in bed, chewing at the ends of her hair. “Do you think I’m a bad person?”

The baby is crawling toward the stairs. Orla makes a roadblock with her foot. “I don’t really think people can be good or bad? They just are.” The baby gnaws at her ankle instead.

“But what if you’ve hurt someone’s feelings?”

“Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m not sorry.”

“Not sorry for doing the thing. Sorry for hurting their feelings.”

Erin chews on her lip. Then she grabs her jacket and opens the window.

O’Flannery’s is packed with sunburned tipsy adults. Teens stealthily tip flasks into their cokes. The mahjong club are on their fourth bottle of wine. In all, there’s a very loud, very volatile crowd in front of which Erin can embarrass herself.

Charlene Kavanagh bars an arm across the PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED sign. Her hair is frizzy and falling out of her ponytail. She still looks like a supermodel. Erin gets an instant stomach ache.

“Sorry, love.” Charlene smiles tightly. “We’re full up. Mr. O'Connor! Go right in. Your usual chair’s open.” She turns back to Erin. “You’re still here?”

Erin laces her fingers together. “Charlene. I can’t speak for James, but I want to say that—”

There’s ear-splitting feedback from an amp. The pub winces. From the corner, the band setting up waves in apology. “Sorry!” David Donnelly calls. He catches sight of Erin as he loops his guitar across his shoulder.

Grand. A larger, more impactful, audience.

Charlene raises an eyebrow. “You were saying?”

Erin pulls herself back on track. “I know I hurt you. And possibly unearthed a ghost at the Joyces’. But believe me, that was not my intention—”

There’s yet another commotion. This time it sounds like the amp has been kicked over. “For the love of God,” says a mahjong player, adjusting her hearing aid.

This time it’s James grimacing on the stage. He sets the fallen microphone upright, looking at David through his eyelashes. David is staring down at him. His choker shifts.

“Look, Erin, I’m very busy here.” Charlene stacks the menus in a neat pile. “If you’ve got something to say — or someone else to snog — just do it.”

There is feedback for a third time. The manager raises himself from behind the bar.

“Sorry,” James says into the microphone. His face is pink. David is standing behind him with his arms crossed. “Uh. Hi everyone.”

A couple people call, _Hello traitor!_ A member of the mahjong club explains to her neighbor, _Deirdre’s adopted Cockney wain_ , _that is._

“I have an announcement to make.” James clears his throat. David now looks panicked. Erin lurches forward. “I would just like to say that I —”

It’s too soon. Too much too soon. All jokes aside, Deirdre will kill him. Her mam will kill her. Her da will cry, which is worse than being killed.

“ — that I have severely fucked up, in a way that I can’t disclose right now. But just know that I am very sorry for it.”

Erin freezes. She drops to the ground. “You haven’t seen an earring, have you?” she asks the man above her.

“Details!” someone shouts.

“Yeah, now _exactly_ did you fuck up?” says another.

Looking deeply regretful now, James glances back. David puts an encouraging hand on his shoulder. He’s smiling. “I was afraid to tell someone the truth. Who? Er, all right. I guess this is a group activity now. A good friend of mine— You all know Erin Quinn?”

Heads swivel in her direction. Still on her hands and knees, she waves weakly.

“Yeah, Mary’s daughter. Yes, Elias, she’s Gerry’s daughter too. That’s how marriage works. Anyhow, I was afraid to be honest. Erin helped cover for me. And we hurt people in the process. But mostly, Erin herself. Sorry, cuz,” he says, eyes downcast.

“Play Zeppelin!” someone calls.

“I’m not actually— Right. Without further ado, I give you David and the Donnellys.” James pulls the microphone closer. “And they’re not a cover band.”

A chorus of groans. Erin gets to her feet. The man next to her taps her arm.

“All this fuss for an earring,” he tells her, “you just come straight down Flaherty and Sons on Crown Street next time.”

Charlene is waiting up front. Her cheeks are pink. “I, uh.” She loops her hair into a topknot. Then takes it out again. “Want to meet during break tomorrow? The usual place. To—” Her eyes flick to the sea of crucifix necklaces and rosaries — “talk?”

Erin wets her lips. Charlene watches her, avidly. “Sure.” Moving aside to let a family of eight pass, “Sorry I called you a whore.”

“Sorry I called you a slut.”

“You didn’t.”

“Sorry I called you a slut behind your back.”

The woman at the stand says, “Look, love, we’ve been waiting for ages.”

Charlene grabs a stack of menus. She glances back at Erin as she weaves through the dining room: a secretive smile spreading.

* * *

It takes a full week for something else to happen. It is Michelle. She sort of gets married to a Spanish tourist. It’s not really legal. Then Marie-Lourdes is discovered having converted to Protestantism and the entire school shuts down.

So is, by proxy, their secret meeting place. Erin bites three pencils down to the bone.

She slips out of physics the week after, armed with a note that needs to go to the office. Charlene Kavanagh is posed above the copy machine. Her face brightens. She holds up a thick paper with an official crest and QUEEN’S UNIVERSITY BELFAST splashed across the top. Identical to the one currently displayed on Erin’s fridge. _Acceptance,_ she mouths.

Erin jumps into the air, whooping.

Sister Michael’s office door flies open. Out strides a quivering bundle of self-righteousness.

There’s a tense standoff across the room. Then Erin says, “Um. Sorry. I was out of order.”

Jenny Joyce’s shoulder twitches. She sniffs, “I hated that fireplace anyway.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr link](http://sonatine.tumblr.com/post/183389898599/catch-yourself-out)


End file.
